


Not when they're told

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Batman Fusion, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Enemies to Lovers, Harry Potter is Catwoman, M/M, Swearing, Thief Harry Potter, Tom Riddle is Batman, Vigilante Tom Riddle, Violence, but also there will be no sex in this story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26281651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: Slowly, carefully, he cleans tonight’s danger—tonight’s violence—from his skin. He imagines Voldemort’s touch like an oil spill, the film of it washed away but leaving him stained.If the man saw him here, bare but for the marks he left, would he recognize him?He thinks he would; he imagines the man beneath that cowl is exactly the type. It says something about his own type, Harry thinks, that this idea has him breathing heavier, feeling a rush of heat and something like adrenaline at just the thought of it.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle, Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 42
Kudos: 386
Collections: Tomarry Reverse Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> to zombu: your art was so much fun to write for!! thank you for giving me such a fun (and wonderfully drawn as always) concept to work with!! i hope you enjoy the fic it inspired 🥳
> 
> also, the title is from:
>
>> Cats come when they feel like it.
>> 
>> Not when they're told.

Silence.

As he skulks through the halls of Gotham’s premier museum of art, this is what strikes him the most. Whenever he visits these halls during the day, the sounds of people moving and talking and taking space are a constant hum.

Now, between guard rotations, the halls are empty.

If he let his footsteps make any sound against these marble floors, he imagines they’d echo through the entire building, bouncing around the tall, glass ceilings like the strike of a bell. He almost wants to, just to break this unnatural stillness.

But the stillness means he’s safe. It means he hasn’t been detected.

He isn’t going to waste it.

Down the hall and through the first doorway to the left, his prize awaits. Not even six months ago, one of Gotham’s wealthiest patriarchs—an oil executive known for being a bastard in every area of his life—passed away in his sleep. A lifelong patron of the arts—and likely seeking to deprive his worthless grandchildren, or so the media has been quick to speculate—he’s left his not insignificant collection of jewelry to the museum. 

It’s a beautiful display. He enjoyed looking at it, all seven times he visited to get a feel for the place. If he didn’t have bills to pay—if Hermione’s tuition wasn’t due soon and Ron’s jackass of a boss hadn’t just cut his hours for the second time this month—he might have left it in peace.

Alas, capitalism.

He’s spent last year almost exclusively stalking the halls of Gotham’s manors and penthouses.

It’s time to switch it up.

He reaches the display room without incident.

As he crouches before one of the three display cases in the center of the room (holding pieces far less distinctive but no less valuable than the collection’s finest), he checks his watch. He’s right on time. A low jolt, and then the near imperceptible hum of electricity fades. The silence is more deafening than before, and in it, he can hear the distant shouts of security guards checking in.

He has five minutes before the backup generators—carefully sabotaged earlier this evening—will be restored.

He’s finished in two.

And thankfully so, because he hasn’t even finished tucking the jewelry away before he hears footsteps echoing through the halls, coming his way. He frowns, tilting his head as he listens. That doesn’t sound like a stampede of security guards…

In fact, it sounds almost like…just one.

His eyes widen as his heart beats faster; he’s frozen, trembling, with anticipation. He recognizes those footsteps—there aren’t many people he’s met who can move so quietly in boots so heavy. Among that number, there’s only one who would be here tonight.

He must have been nearby, Harry thinks. He must’ve been waiting.

Fucking _Voldemort._

Three times, Harry’s run into Gotham’s new vigilante, but they’ve only ever seen each other at a distance. For all of Voldemort’s tech, he’s never quite managed to catch up, to get close enough to actually stop him. Until tonight, that is. And while Harry certainly isn’t going to be the one to say that the decline in violent crime since his first appearance is a _bad_ thing, Voldemort’s presence—his attention—is the last thing he wants to deal with.

Especially when he’s in the middle of a heist that was, quite frankly, going perfectly up until this point.

With a hissed curse, he double checks that he has the jewelry and everything he came in with. Then, he heads for the back of the exhibit, where there’s a hallway connecting it to another—one featuring art that is of considerably less value per ounce and thereby not the first place one would think to look for a thief.

Well.

Hopefully.

As he sneaks through the darkened exhibit, he strains to hear Voldemort’s footsteps. Thanks to the echo, it’s difficult to know where, exactly, they’re coming from.

He peers into the main hall and some of the tension in his shoulders drains away. It’s clear. If he can get across the main hall without being stopped, there’s an emergency exit only a short sprint away. He’s about to make a break for it when—

The hum of a generator fills the air again, and the alarm sounds.

Right.

New plan.

As the guards on duty spill into the hall from wherever they’d gathered to investigate the loss of power, Harry retreats further into the exhibit. Three or four, he could take on no problem, but there’s at least ten guards in that hall, and he’s not interested in sitting in a cell tonight.

Of course, Voldemort’s footsteps are closer now.

He’s reached the display Harry has stolen from. If his pattern holds, he’ll collect what evidence he can, and then he’ll start his search.

Seeing as Harry left no evidence to find, he doesn’t have much time.

By the time Voldemort is done in the other room, Harry has tucked himself into the shadows of a supply closet disguised among the wall paneling. He hears the slide of a cape against the floor and holds his breath, feeling like his heart might beat right out of his chest.

A shadow passes under the door and stops.

He bites his lip, holds himself still.

He doesn’t dare to breathe.

After a moment that feels as though it stretches into an eternity, Voldemort moves on. Harry doesn’t let himself sigh in relief, but he does let his eyes fall shut as his shoulders relax. He stays there, curled up in the closet and listening to the sounds of people moving around him and then away from him, of the shouting as they realize what’s been taken.

He counts to a thousand before he even considers leaving his hiding place.

Holding his breath as he moves, he hooks his fingers on the latch and pulls, sliding the door open just enough to see that the room beyond it is empty. Mindful of the guards just a room away, he slinks out of the closet, gaze darting around the room. Once he’s close enough, he peers into the main hall, scowling when he sees the way to the nearest emergency exit is blocked. Unless he’s willing to wait for the guards to leave, he’ll need to use one of the exits on the higher floors.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem. He’s quick enough that even without a way to hide, they couldn’t catch him.

With Voldemort here…

He breaks from his crouch and sprints for the stairs, and he’s fast enough that he’s almost halfway to the top when he hears the first shout.

The guards begin to chase after him.

Any moment now, Voldemort will join them. The thought of it shouldn’t thrill him like it does.

“Stop!” he hears one of the guards shout.

Harry, already at the top of the stairs, doesn’t listen.

Then he hears something clatter along the floor, and a spray of sparks explodes at his feet. He throws himself to the side, his ears ringing as he rolls out of his fall, landing on his feet. He blinks, staring at the floor once the noise fades. There’s no damage; whatever it was, it was meant to distract, not injure.

And it worked.

He sees a dark blur out of the corner of his eye. A weight strikes him from the side, and he and his attacker tumble across the floor. He grunts as he lands flat on his stomach, his wrists crushed to the floor and a knee digging into his back. 

He gives himself a second to breathe, to test the grip holding him down.

Then he brings in his elbows, rises onto his knees as much as he can, and twists. Before he can roll free, his attacker is on him again, and he lands on his back, looking up into the masked face of the man who’s been hunting him all these months.

His face is flushed beneath his mask. There’s a snarl on his lips. Harry wonders if Voldemort knows who he is—if he’s studied his work and pieced each of his crimes together, if he knows who he has here beneath him.

This, too, should not be thrilling.

And yet.

Before Voldemort can pin him again, he grabs his right arm in a bruising grip, trapping one of Voldemort’s feet with his left foot as he flips them. He takes advantage of Voldemort’s surprise at the switch; a hit below his chin is enough to knock Voldemort flat, and his legs loosen enough around his waist that he can roll free and spring to his feet, already moving.

Too soon, he hears Voldemort’s pounding footsteps chase after him.

He races for the next staircase, stumbling when he feels a burning heat strike his leg. Then a spreading sting. He changes course, and when he risks a glance down, he sees his suit is torn—sees red as blood wells from the cut. Whatever cut him hits the floor, and he throws himself toward the sound, grabbing it as he rolls to his feet—if his blood is on it, he doesn’t want Voldemort to have it.

He risks another look back.

Voldemort is between him and the stairs.

Down one of the branching halls and three lefts further, there’s another staircase. Even better, there’s a series of pillars rising to the ceiling above the third floor, bisecting the third-floor railing.

With a new burst of speed, he sprints toward the pillar with the most handholds—ranging from cracks in the stone that may or may not be purposeful to carefully designed installations that he hopes are bolted strong enough to support his weight. Moving too quickly to be hit again, he throws himself from handhold to handhold then flips himself over the third floor’s railing.

He lands in a crouch, one hand pressed to the floor as he catches his breath.

His legs are shaking.

He closes his eyes, orients himself in the floor-plans he memorized last night. The closest emergency exit leads to a fire escape above an alley that feeds into Gotham’s arts district, which he can easily disappear into.

He runs.

When he hears Voldemort behind him again, he doesn’t look over his shoulder the way he wants to. He can imagine the look of determined fury on the vigilante’s face; he doesn’t have to imagine—he _remembers_ —the wight of him holding him down, holding him still. Looking back is a distraction he can’t afford.

As he darts to the right, gripping the wall by the corner to ease the turn, he lets out a startled breath when he feels Voldemort’s hand just miss him.

He runs faster.

The vigilante at his back doesn’t try another blade, likely knowing it would take too long to grab one and that by the time he gets it, Harry will be out of sight again, disappearing around the next corner of the museum’s maze-like top floor. As he rounds another corner, Harry reminds himself to leave a nice review for the installation, which is meant to echo the artists’ own claustrophobia.

It’s very effective, after all, though perhaps not the way the artist intended.

The closer Harry gets to the exit, the more distance he puts between them.

Voldemort may have suspected someone would strike the museum’s latest exhibit, but he has an entire city to watch. Harry doesn’t have to spread his gaze so wide, and so he’s taken the time to know these halls like the back of his hand.

He slams into the emergency exit, scrambling for the handle.

As he unlatches the door, Voldemort’s weight crashing against his back presses the breath from his lungs. Then, a hand on his neck makes him choke as Voldemort grabs hold of him and pulls, tossing him away and to the floor. He catches himself as he falls, pushes himself to his knees and looks up, sees Voldemort turn to face him, blocking the door.

Baring his teeth, Harry rises onto his feet.

He can’t go back, because the halls will be filled with guards and any moment now, the cops will show. And yet, Voldemort blocks the only way forward.

He takes a breath, flexes his fingers before curling his hands into fists, and rises onto the balls of his feet.

By the next breath, Voldemort is on him.

Where the vigilante is covered in armor, Harry’s suit barely deserves the name. It covers his face, and the leather protects him from all manner of scrapes, but it’s nothing against Voldemort’s bruising strength, which he’s seen take down men four times his size. If even one of those powerful blows lands with full force, he’s going down, and he knows it.

He ducks a hit.

When he uses his arm to divert the next, he has to bite down on a pained yelp as he stumbles back, his arm and shoulder already pulsing into a steady ache.

Voldemort doesn’t pause, just barely landing a hit to the chest that forces Harry to his back, gasping as he blinks tears from his eyes. He sees Voldemort’s foot lift and rolls aside, using his momentum to turn and swipe Voldemort’s foot from beneath him mid-stomp.

Voldemort catches himself before he can fall, but in the time it takes to right himself, Harry is back on his feet. The next time Voldemort turns to him, he’s ready, armed with a can of pepper spray—carried as one of the few concessions he makes to Hermione about his work—aimed at his face. As effective as it may be at hiding his identity, Voldemort’s mask leaves mouth free, and it doesn’t protect him from the surprised breath he takes at just the wrong moment. He stumbles back, one hand over his mouth, and Harry runs again.

He’s always hated running from a fight, but he knows when he’s beat.

And anyway, this wasn’t supposed to be a fight at all.

He staggers into the night air, one hand pressed to his aching chest and not pausing for even a moment before he throws himself over the railing, landing with a rattling thump on the fire escape’s next landing. Above him, the door crashes against the wall.

He doesn’t look, too busy tossing himself down to the next landing.

The first escape shudders as Voldemort follows suit.

With his heart in his throat, Harry makes it to the ground and sprints for the lights at the end of the alley. It’s not yet midnight, so the blocks surrounding the museum—full of themed clubs and theaters and late-night restaurants—are crawling with people dressed to stand out from the crowd.

Voldemort, who’s operated from the shadows since the first whispers of his presence started to spread, is unlikely to follow him here.

He tugs off his gloves—tucking them into his pack, which he moves from being slung across his back to his hip—as he runs, then settles into a brisk walk when he reaches a crowd of people dressed in black leather, easily blending in (one of them complements his boots, and no one even looks twice at his mask, a gift from Ginny that makes him look like he’s wearing cat ears).

When he reaches a gap in the street-lamps, he splits from the crowd and tugs the mask off, cutting down an alley to struggle out of the top half of his suit, leaving just his undershirt. He leaves it hanging with the arms tied, where it looks enough like a jacket tied around his waist that it doesn’t draw any attention. 

The next time he’s in the light, he strolls, knowing that to any cameras watching—if there are functional cameras at all, which is never guaranteed even in the busiest parts of the city—he’ll look like just another college aged kid looking for a party.

He thinks he sees a shadow atop a nearby roof and carefully doesn’t look or change his stride.

Feeling eyes on him, knowing he’s being paranoid but unable to shake the tension in his shoulders, he hops onto the first bus he sees. He has to run to catch it, and he’ll need to make at least three transfers to reach his apartment from this route, but it feels better to be off the street.

He doesn’t breathe easy until the door to his apartment latches shut behind him.

Collapsing against the closed door, he knocks his head back and tilts his face to the ceiling, lets his eyes fall shut as he forces his breaths even.

That was too close.

If he has any sense at all, he’ll take this as a sign—hang up the mask and resign himself to a life spent in the cesspit that is Gotham, another not-quite-well-adjusted adult working a terrible job with terrible pay while Gotham’s favorite sons and daughters party above it all in their penthouses and ballrooms.

And yet.

He hears a thump from further inside the apartment, then Ron’s laughter and Hermione’s scolding voice, only barely muffled by the thin walls. They should both be sleeping—Ron has an early shift and Hermione has a peer edit for her memo in the morning—but since the beginning, they’ve waited up for him on the nights he goes out.

He pushes away from the door, kicking off his boots and grinning when he hears silence, then racing footsteps, as his friends come to welcome him home.

Later, once Ron has finished fussing and successfully pressed a cup of tea into his hands and Hermione has delivered her lecture—updated since he last heard it—about the dangers of Voldemort and his attention, he shoos them off to bed. “Stop hovering and go to sleep,” he says, trying to sound stern and mostly failing. He waves away the concern Ron has never bothered trying to hide. “I’m _fine.”_

With lingering looks, they go.

As the door to their room shuts behind them, he allows himself to lift a hand to his chest, pressing at the ache he knows will settle into a vicious bruise tomorrow.

Sighing, he grabs the first aid kit from the couch and heads for the bathroom.

The best thing about this place, aside from the people who are living in it with him, is the bathtub. Unlike their last apartment, which had a small shower stall and nothing else, this place has a tub big enough that he can use it without having to curl into a ball to fit.

He fills it, leaning against the tub and trailing one hand across the water’s surface as he waits.

Minutes later, he’s stripped off the last of his suit and is up to his shoulders in warm water, with his knees only just poking above the surface.

He isn’t sure how long he stays there, soaking as the warmth steals some of the ache from his body, but by the time he moves again, he can do so without having to bite back a grimace. When he looks down, he sees the beginning of an ugly bruise in the center of his chest, where the worst of Voldemort’s hits landed.

It looks distorted, an image not helped by the bathroom’s terrible lighting, made worse by the fact that only one of the light fixture’s bulbs still works.

He rests one hand over it, presses down and breathes into the ache.

His ribs feel fine.

As he was able to get home without sinking to his knees in the middle of the sidewalk, he thinks he can safely say that the bruise is only skin deep. Seeing as he has a class tomorrow night and a shift at the clinic before that, he’s glad for it.

It’s easier to deal with the days when he isn’t in debilitating pain while doing so.

Holding himself still, holding himself steady, he moves his hand from his chest to catalogue the rest of the night’s aches.

A bruise on his wrist from slamming into the door.

Another on his forearm from blocking Voldemort’s fist.

An ache in his knees from descending the fire escape, though this one left no marks. If he’s lucky, they won’t be swollen tomorrow.

Finally, a line of red on his thigh from Voldemort’s oddly shaped dagger, though it’s already scabbed over and therefore not bleeding red into the water.

He brushes his fingers over each one, shivering and settling into the pain.

For a long moment, he just sits with it, feeling it.

Then, he takes a deep breath, holds it, and sinks beneath the water, bending his knees until he can press his shoulders and the back of his head flat against the bottom of the tub. Under the water, cocooned beneath the surface, he can imagine it doesn’t hurt; he can imagine he feels nothing at all.

Eyes clenched shut, he sees Voldemort as he was tonight—the image of his snarl imprinted forever in his mind, along with the weight of him, his bruising hold and the sound of his breaths as he forced Harry to the ground—clearer than he’s ever seen him before.

This isn’t the first time he’s met Gotham’s infamous vigilante, but it’s the first time he’s ever gotten close enough to bleed.

He stays beneath the water until his lungs burn with the need to breathe, and then a moment longer. Then he grips the edge of the tub in both hands and sits up, gasping for breath as water splashes over the sides and his wet hair plasters itself to his forehead, dripping into his eyes. He shoves it back, licking the water from his lips as he breathes forcefully out through his nose.

He rolls his shoulders, grimacing when his back cracks.

He loses track of time, sat up in the tub with his eyes closed, just breathing. But by the time he moves again, deciding he should probably use the tub for its intended purpose before he ends up spending the night here on accident, he can feel his fingers beginning to prune.

Slowly, carefully, he cleans tonight’s danger—tonight’s violence—from his skin. He imagines Voldemort’s touch like an oil spill, the film of it washed away but leaving him stained.

If the man saw him here, bare but for the marks he left, would he recognize him?

He thinks he would; he imagines the man beneath that cowl is exactly the type. It says something about his own type, Harry thinks, that this idea has him breathing heavier, feeling a rush of heat and something like adrenaline at just the thought of it.

Hermione would have a field day if he told her.

Shaking his head at himself, he dunks his head into the water again, scrubbing the shampoo from his hair. If he doesn’t hurry, he might just give in to temptation and fall asleep right here in the water.

After, as he stands shivering and dripping on the bathmat with his arms curled around himself, he watches the water drain away.

With it, he does his best to cast out all thoughts of Voldemort.

Gotham’s vigilante is a fairy tale, after all, however real and gruesome he may be. And Harry has a life to worry about—a good one, for all that it sometimes sucks. A life full of people he loves, full of people he can help and _will_ help, as long as he doesn’t get caught.

He won’t risk it.

He _can’t_ risk it, not even if he wants to.

(He thinks he might want to.)


	2. Chapter 2

Of all the ways to scope out new targets, attending a charity gala on Draco Malfoy’s arm might just be his least favorite.

Apparently, Draco’s date for the evening ran off with a new lover. When he couldn’t find anyone else to fill the newly empty seat on such short notice, he’d resigned himself to inviting Harry. Knowing what a waste it would be to turn down such a rare opportunity, Harry accepted with only minimal reluctance. He already has a tuxedo for the occasion—a gift from Draco for helping his not-quite-friend piss off his overbearing father—which means the only thing he needs to worry about is literally everything else about his appearance.

Which leads him here—camped out in the bathroom of his apartment, leaning forward against the counter to see better as he finishes applying his eyeliner.

He doesn’t wear makeup often—he has neither the time nor the patience on any given day—but when he’s going to be spending the night stuck in a room with some of the wealthiest people in Gotham, he wants to make sure he looks _good._ The more he looks like he belongs, the less likely it is that he’ll be remembered when someone on the guest list is robbed later this month.

Also, he thinks as he adds a touch of gloss to his lips, he really does like the way it looks.

He takes a step back, checking to make sure it isn’t too much.

With a parting glance at his reflection, he abandons the mirror to go put on his tux. He hears Ron and Hermione get back as he finishes pulling on the jacket. When he reaches the living room, their backs are facing him. “Well,” he says, posing in the center of the room, “how do I look?”

Hermione turns then pauses, her eyebrows raised as she takes him in. “I haven’t seen you wear _that_ in a while,” she says.

Hermione was against his relationship with Draco from the start. She probably isn’t enthused to see a physical reminder that it actually happened.

“You look like an asshole,” Ron says dryly.

Harry laughs, twirling to give them the full view. “That’s the goal.”

“What time do you need to leave?” Hermione asks as she drops her bag onto the couch and comes closer, circling him. He doesn’t get a chance to answer before she asks, “Are you wearing makeup?”

“Mhm.” Harry tilts his face toward the lamp in the corner of the room so she can see it better, and she hums in appreciation. “I figured it might help me blend in. Hide all my spots, you know?”

“Please,” Hermione says with a scoff. “As if you ever had spots. Your skin’s been clear since the day I met you.”

Harry grins. “It’s the universe’s doing, I bet,” he says, turning his head again at her urging. “I had to get _something_ in return for my parents being murdered.”

“Jesus, Harry,” Ron says, though Harry can tell he’s trying not to laugh.

Hermione only sighs at him, having long given up on trying to quell his darker humor. “Collect some business cards for me?” she asks.

“Of course.”

At the very least, if he can collect some contacts for Hermione, the speeches he’ll have to sit through tonight will be worth _something._

His phone chimes, then, and he hurries to collect his wallet, keys, and coat (also a gift from Draco) before responding to Draco’s text. “Alright,” he says, patting at his pockets to make sure he has everything as he heads for the door, waving over his shoulder, “I’m off. Don’t wait up.”

“Good luck!” Ron calls.

Then the door falls shut behind him.

For a long moment, Harry only stands there in the empty hall, feeling distinctly out of place even though the night hasn’t even begun. This is just another part of the job, he knows, but he can’t wait for it to be over. He can’t wait to be back home again, to shed his tux and curl up on the couch beside his friends who will, in spite of his directions otherwise, be waiting up for him to return.

Maybe he’ll enjoy himself, he thinks in a voice that sounds remarkably like Hermione.

But he doubts it.

Still, it’s a necessary evil. The real fun will come later, when he’s sneaking through dark halls and puzzling his way into all sorts of places his targets have done their best to keep him out of.

 _That,_ Harry is looking forward to.

About half an hour into the post-dinner reception—half an hour spent mingling with people who wouldn’t be caught dead in his general vicinity on any other day—he’s added three names to his list. From the gossip Draco shares with him between conversations, it sounds like all three of them are known assholes, even to their peers, which only makes him more certain of each addition.

For Hermione, he’s collected the business cards of four practicing attorneys and a visiting senator.

All in all, it’s been a productive evening.

Boring, yes, but productive.

And then it gets interesting.

He’s in the middle of listening to a particularly dry account of a couple’s summer in Monaco when he feels Draco perk up beside him and then a hand around his wrist, squeezing tight. “Harry,” Draco hisses into his ear, “do you see that man speaking to the mayor? The tall one?”

Harry, eager for a distraction, looks, making only the barest attempt at being subtle.

He sees the man right away.

Like Draco said, he’s tall, towering over Cornelius Fudge, Gotham’s mayor, as they speak. His hair is dark and neatly coiffed—something Harry notes with some envy, as his own hair continues to resist all attempts at taming it. His tux frames his broad shoulders, his narrow waist, expertly; he looks like he could lift Harry with one hand and toss him clear across the room.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his hand rises without thinking to the still-healing bruise on his chest as he recalls another man’s strength.

Then the man turns his head, and Harry’s eyes widen as he recognizes him.

Tom Riddle, who appeared from seemingly nowhere and took over Riddle Enterprises in the wake of his father’s sudden death. In the year since he stepped into the spotlight, he’s charmed nearly everyone whose opinion means anything in this city, and his ever-growing collection of sycophants scramble over themselves to proclaim his many virtues to anyone who’ll listen.

Ginny thinks he had his father killed.

Apparently, she met him while shadowing a journalist prior to the announcement of his return, and she came away from the interview convinced that he’s a cutthroat, potentially evil mastermind who’s to be avoided at all costs.

It’s just a shame he’s so handsome.

“What about him?” Harry asks.

Draco’s gaze drags over Riddle’s frame. With a sinking feeling, Harry recognizes the look on his face. It’s the way Draco used to look at _him._ Well, shit, Harry thinks. For all that Draco is insufferable on a good day, he doesn’t want Riddle to steal his heart and…and fucking eat it for breakfast, or whatever it is he does when he isn’t plotting corporate takeovers (and potentially murders).

“He works with my father,” Draco tells him, oblivious to Harry’s concern. “He visits the manor regularly, but I’ve never had the chance to speak to him at length.”

“Draco—”

His friend must be able to hear the disapproval in his voice, because he interrupts, defensive, “I just think he’s interesting, that’s all.” For a moment, they’re joined in staring, watching as Riddle masterfully charms Mayor Fudge. “I’m going to introduce you.”

“Oh, god.” He tries and fails to tug his wrist free as Draco makes their excuses to the couple—still droning on—and leads him away. “Draco, no.”

Draco doesn’t let him escape.

“Come _on,_ Harry,” he says, a hint of a whine in his voice. “When have I ever asked you to do something for me?”

“Tonight,” Harry says flatly, dragging his heels.

Draco scoffs. “Your seat cost my father thousands of dollars. If anything, tonight is a favor to you.”

“Right,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. He should have expected that. “Do you not remember our _three-year_ long relationship?”

Draco looks away, blushing. He clears his throat, then says, “I meant besides that.”

“Of course you did.” Then again, Harry supposes those three years have long since been paid for, as Harry has never shared Ron’s stubborn refusal to accept gifts he hasn’t earned. He sighs. “Fine, but I reserve the right to judge you.”

Before Draco can say something suitably cutting in response, they’re within earshot of Riddle and the mayor, and he schools his expression into a pleasant mask.

Harry does his best to follow suit.

Fudge sees them first, and his face lights up as he turns to greet them, interrupting Riddle mid-sentence. For just a moment, before he reverts to polite interest once more, Riddle looks as though he wants nothing more than to strangle the man for the slight.

Maybe Ginny’s theory has some merit.

“Draco, my boy,” Fudge says, clapping a hand to Draco’s shoulder as he ignores—or perhaps doesn’t notice—Riddle’s ire, “it’s good to see you.”

Harry doesn’t pay any attention to Draco's reply.

Instead, he looks at Riddle, and is surprised to find dark eyes looking back.

As he holds Riddle’s gaze, he’s struck by the odd feeling that he’s met this man before, though he knows for a fact that this can’t be true. He frowns, tilts his head and keeps staring, like he might understand where this familiarity comes from if he just looks hard enough.

Riddle’s eyes, still watching him, narrow.

He leans forward, like he might be about to say something. Harry finds himself holding his breath, waiting.

Before Riddle can say anything, however, his attention is once more claimed by the mayor, and Harry has to fight the ridiculous urge to sigh in relief as the weight of his gaze lifts. “—in fact, Tom was just telling me all about his business with your father,” Fudge says in his pompous voice. “It’s vitally important work, you know, a pride to our city. And of course, we can’t forget the jobs it will create for our citizens.” He chuckles and adds, “And just in time for the upcoming election, too.”

Harry bites at his cheek, doesn’t roll his eyes the way he wants to.

Draco elbows him—discreetly, of course—before he can say anything. “I’m happy to hear it, Cornelius,” he says. “I’ll be sure to relay your compliments to my father.” He pauses then, like something’s just occurred to him. “Or, perhaps you can tell him yourself; he’s been meaning to speak to you about your campaign.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news, my boy,” Fudge says, a greedy light in his eyes. “Tell him I eagerly await his call.”

Riddle chooses to interject, then.

Harry looks away from the window, deciding he should probably pay attention again.

“Draco,” Riddle says smoothly, and it really isn’t fair that his voice is nice too. “It’s good to see you again.” He turns his gaze on Harry again as he says, “Please, introduce us to your _friend.”_

Harry is sorely tempted to make a face at him, but Draco steps in before he can, hooking a hand through his arm and tugging him closer. “Cornelius,” he says, “Mr. Riddle—”

“Please,” Riddle interrupts, “call me Tom.”

“—this is Harry Potter, an old friend of mine.”

Harry smirks at the description, eyeing Draco in a way that makes him blush and grip Harry’s arm tighter in warning. The warning is unnecessary, however, as Riddle’s extended hand halts any thoughts of teasing him before they can fully form.

For just long enough to be rude, Harry doesn’t move.

Then he accepts Riddle’s handshake. He’s not entirely sure what he expected, but his brows lift when he feels just how firm Riddle’s grip is. His hand is warm around Harry’s, and—thankfully—dry. Still, Harry finds himself feeling unsettled. He shifts, tries to pull back, but Riddle doesn’t let go. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry,” he says, his gaze darting across his face.

Harry wonders if Riddle, too, feels as though they’ve met before.

He grins, baring his teeth as he squeezes hard enough to make Riddle release him, digging his nails into the back of his hand. “Likewise.”

Fudge, seemingly oblivious to the tension, cheerfully interrupts. “Potter, you say?” he asks. “Any relation to Fleamont Potter?”

Harry doesn’t wince at the name, but only because Ron and the twins have made any and all jokes possible at its expense already, at least three times each, and so it no longer has any effect. “My grandfather,” he says.

“He was a good man, that Fleamont,” Fudge says, wistful. “I only met him a handful of times, but he was a pleasure to speak to. And your father too, of course. He, I knew even less, but the potential that man had…” He trails off, then turns his solemn gaze on Harry. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Potter.”

Harry takes a breath, moulds his expression into a smile. “Thank you, sir.”

The moment hangs, then Fudge breaks it. “Will you be following in your grandfather’s footsteps, then? Or perhaps your father’s?”

A chemist and a student at the FBI academy.

Both formidable careers in their own right, for all that his dad’s was cut short before it had truly begun. He wonders what they’d say if they knew the path Harry had taken instead.

He shakes his head. “I work with a clinic in the narrows,” he says, not missing the way Fudge’s lip curls at the mention of one of Gotham’s worst neighborhoods.

“A budding doctor, then?” he asks, and to his credit, he actually does seem interested.

Still, Harry has to smile, knowing what will inevitably come next. “Social work, actually.”

And there it is.

Almost always, the response is the same. An odd mix of discomfort, disdain, and condescending pity as they imagine the penniless future stretched ahead of him. Then the disinterest sets in. If Fudge gave any sign at all that he possesses the sort of wealth Harry ordinarily targets, he thinks he’d add the man’s name to his list.

“A noble profession,” Riddle says then, filling the silence.

Harry smiles, and he’s certain Riddle can see that it’s false as he says, “So I’m told.”

It doesn’t often feel noble.

Most days, it’s just exhausting.

“And yourself, Draco?” Fudge asks, redirecting the conversation. “Will you be following your father’s footsteps?”

“I will,” Draco says, puffing up with pride. “Once I’ve finished my studies, that is.”

Fudge makes an approving noise, nodding his head. “Well,” he says, “I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully. Don’t you agree, Tom?”

It takes Riddle a moment to respond. When he does, he sounds distracted. Harry bristles beneath his gaze. “Of course, Cornelius,” he says before turning a charming grin on Draco. “I have no doubts.”

At his side, Draco blushes.

“I appreciate the confidence,” he says, sticking his pointy chin in the air.

Fudge laughs, but not unkindly, clapping Draco on the shoulder once more before his gaze catches on something behind them. “It’s confidence well deserved,” he says. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, boys, I’ve just spied an old friend of mine, and I’d hate to leave him to this crowd unattended.”

Harry turns to follow his gaze as he hurries away, raising his brows when he sees Albus Dumbledore, state attorney general and Hermione’s idol, across the room.

Perhaps he’ll go introduce himself later.

Hermione would probably cry if he got her _that_ connection.

“I had no idea Cornelius and Dumbledore were such good friends,” Riddle says idly, his voice much closer than before.

Harry flinches at the sound. Riddle doesn’t look away from where he's watching Fudge and Dumbledore, but Harry sees the smirk on his face at his reaction and glares, though whether he’s more annoyed at being laughed at or the fact that Riddle managed to get so close without him noticing, he isn't sure.

He shifts carefully away, restoring some of the distance between them and ignoring the raised eyebrow he gets for it.

There’s something about the tone of Riddle’s voice, his watchful gaze as he considers the two men across the room, that puts him on edge.

Draco, apparently, doesn’t feel it. “I’d hardly call them friends,” he says with a smirk, pleased at having information to share. “My father says Fudge has been looking to get rid of Dumbledore for years.”

“Is that so?” Riddle asks, his head tilting in curiosity.

“Apparently,” Draco continues, “Fudge has been worried that Dumbledore might attempt to unseat him as mayor. He never managed it, of course, but there are many who wanted him to.”

“How intriguing,” Riddle says, his eyes narrowed in thought. Then he smirks and says, “It's such a pity he never succeeded.”

Draco laughs.

Harry seriously considers adding Riddle’s name to his list.

“Do you disagree?” he hears Riddle ask.

He looks back to Riddle, startled. “What?”

“You were frowning,” Riddle tells him, watching him closely. He smiles, and he really is unfairly attractive. “Do you disagree with me?”

“Not at all,” Harry says, more to be contrary than anything else. Draco steps on his foot, but he ignores it, saying unabashedly, “It _is_ a pity. In fact, I think Dumbledore would make a great mayor.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Draco bow his head in defeat.

In front of him, Riddle sneers. “Dumbledore is unfit to be mayor anywhere,” he says, and his composure is mostly gone, Harry notes with interest, “least of all in Gotham.”

“And you think Fudge isn’t?”

“At least Fudge is honest,” Riddle says, stepping closer, and Harry hates how he has to look up to meet Riddle’s dark gaze. “Albus Dumbledore is a hypocrite.” There’s a wild glint to his eyes now, and his cheeks are flushed with passion as he speaks. It really shouldn’t make him even more attractive. And yet. “He preaches endlessly of how we're innocent until proven guilty, of how we all deserve second chances, of the greater good, but what _good_ has he ever done for my—for this city? Gotham has become more dangerous under his guiding hand, not less.”

Harry can almost hear Hermione’s outrage at such a declaration. He stands taller, lifts his chin. “Well, I think—”

“And worst of all,” Riddle continues, a snarl on his lips (and Harry swears he’s seen this before, but he _couldn’t have),_ “he can’t even see past his own prejudices long enough to apply those great principles of his _equally.”_

For a long moment, Harry only stares.

“You know,” he says eventually, taking in Riddle’s heavy breaths, his clenched fists. He considers not saying anything at all, then continues anyway, “That sounded pretty personal, Riddle, but I don’t recall him ever sending _you_ to prison.”

Riddle’s eyes widen.

Harry wonders absently if he’s about to be punched in the face. Instead, Riddle only clenches his jaw, stepping away so he’s no longer looming as he folds his hands behind his back.

“You’re right,” he says, and his face and voice are utterly blank again, as if he was never angry at all. “I’m afraid my feelings on how he handled the investigation of my father’s death got the better of me.” He swallows heavily, then bows his head and says, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Then he turns to walk away.

Harry watches him go, wondering what the hell just happened.

He probably could've handled that better.

“Oh, well done, Harry,” Draco drawls. Harry turns to look at him, startled by the reminder that Draco has been here the entire time. “I imagine he’ll never want to speak to you again, and now I’m out of the running by association.”

“Sorry?”

Draco rolls his eyes, now that no one important is watching. “No, you’re not.”

“No,” Harry agrees with a grin, letting Draco lead him back into the fray, “I’m not.”


	3. interlude

The next time he runs into Voldemort, he doesn’t expect it.

Hours after he makes his excuses at the gala, leaving Draco to spend the rest of the night (and likely the coming morning) in the arms of another, he’s in his suit and making his way across Gotham’s rooftops. This night—like most nights—he’s not looking for trouble. Rather, he’s out because if he wasn’t, he’d be stuck at home with nothing to do but try and blot out the feeling of Tom Riddle dark gaze on him from across the room.

It’s a mild night, as mild as Gotham’s autumns get these days.

Over his suit, he’s pulled on a jean jacket he stole from the back of Charlie’s closet last time he visited the Burrow—tucked away and forgotten after a late growth spurt that left the seams straining over his shoulders. It was a lucky find.

He’s surprised Ginny didn’t get to it first.

On Harry, it’s big enough that he can curl the sleeves over his fists as he buries his chin below the buttoned up collar.

If he were moving, he wouldn’t need it. But he’s not moving; he’s only sitting here at the edge of an apartment building’s roof, clear across the city from his own for all that the quality of the building looks roughly the same.

Something clangs down below—a garbage can’s lid knocked to the ground.

He peers over the edge of the roof, tapping at his goggles to trigger the night vision feature Fred and George so graciously helped him add last time they stopped by. When he sees a small shape moving quickly up the fire escape, his eyes widen and he tenses, ready to scramble away at the first sign of danger.

Then he hears a meow.

“Oh,” he says, relaxing. He pushes his goggles up into his hair and grins as a familiar cat—pale grey with flecks of black along her flank—leaps onto the roof beside him. “Hello, my darling.” 

She purrs beneath his hand, rubbing her cheeks against his palm and up his wrist.

The first time she joined him, he was worried she’d gotten lost. Then she kept joining him each time he wound up in this part of the city, and, eventually, he’d found her hiding out in a nearby lot. If his landlord allowed pets, he’d take her home in a heartbeat.

To be entirely honest, he’s seriously considering doing it anyway.

“What’ve you been up to, sweet girl?” he asks as she abandons his outstretched hand to trot even closer.

The cat—Hedwig, as he’s taken to calling her lately—chirps in reply, pressing her paws against his shoulder as she nuzzles beneath his chin. He runs a light hand along her flank, feeling for injuries. As far as he can tell, she’s moving normally, and his brief inspection reveals nothing wrong.

She feels thin, though. He’ll need to talk to Ron and Hermione about violating their landlord’s terms sooner rather than later.

He loses track of how long he stays there—sat at the edge of the roof with Hedwig a warm, purring weight in his lap. He thinks he could stay this way forever.

Before he can, a scream splits the air.

He flinches at the sound, and Hedwig grumbles in protest as he shifts her out of his lap and rises into a crouch. He tilts his head, listening.

Another scream—this time, calling for help.

He finds the source two rooftops over, down below. Scowling, he watches as two teenagers are backed up against the wall by a man who towers over both of them. He’s brandishing something, and Harry’s eyes narrow as he tugs his goggles back over his eyes to look closer.

Not a gun. Good.

On silent feet, he drops from the rooftop to the fire escape below, creeping further down until—he leaps. He lands heavily with his feet on the man’s shoulders, knocking him to his back on the ground. Breaking his own fall with a roll—and thanking Charlie’s jacket for adding another layer between his skin and the pavement—he recovers first.

He springs to his feet, planting himself between the would-be-attacker and his victims.

“Go,” he says over his shoulders, and they do, holding onto each other as they run back to the marginally better-lit street.

The man lifts his head to glare, his pale face flushed an angry red as he spits blood onto the pavement. He must’ve bitten his tongue when he fell. “Who the fuck are you?”

Harry ignores him, flexing onto his toes as he considers his options.

A shadow falls from the sky, and the choice is made for him. He stumbles back, his heart in his throat, as he watches Voldemort knock the man back to the pavement with one brutal blow. He lifts a hand to his chest, rubs at the phantom ache that blooms beneath his touch.

Voldemort turns to face him, and he swallows past the sudden lump in his throat.

He should’ve run while the vigilante was distracted.

“Hello again,” he says, shifting his weight. Voldemort mirrors him, blocking the easiest escape. Now, his only option is back up the fire escape. “Busy night?”

Voldemort doesn’t smile.

“Less so than you’d think,” he finally says, and Harry’s breath catches as he shivers, but not from the cold. There’s no _way_ that’s his real voice. “Apparently, someone’s been doing my job for me.”

Harry laughs in spite of himself.

“Hardly,” he says with a grin that’s only half forced. Voldemort nods to the man on the ground. And. Alright. “Maybe, er, _half_ of your job. You’re the one that knocked him out.”

Voldemort rolls his shoulders in what could be a shrug; it could _also_ be him preparing to knock Harry out as well. Harry takes a step back. Just in case.

“The jewels you took,” Voldemort begins.

Harry clenches his jaw, tenses to run, and apparently that’s the only answer the vigilante needs. He throws himself forward, bent to catch Harry around the waist, and Harry gasps as he twists—pivots out of reach. He makes a break for the mouth of the alley now that Voldemort’s not blocking the way, only to choke when he gets a fist in the collar of his jacket for his efforts.

Voldemort tugs him back, nearly jerks him off his feet, and he squirms, tries to free his arms from the sleeves.

He succeeds.

As he slips free and races for the street, he hears Voldemort curse as he stumbles back, then pounding footsteps that threaten to overtake him any second now. He risks a look back.

He’s too close.

His heart in his throat, he leaps to the side, presses himself flat to the brick wall at his back, and Voldemort stumbles again as he corrects to meet him. In the second it takes him to regain his balance, Harry pushes off the wall, using it to brace himself as he kicks out, striking at Voldemort’s knee with his shin.

He doesn’t wait to see Voldemort buckle.

He runs.

But he doesn’t get far. A hand grabs him by the ankle and pulls, and he only just manages to land on his hip instead of smacking his chin into the pavement. Before he can roll away or kick out of his hold, Voldemort is on him, pinning him to the ground.

Then, before he even has time to panic, he’s lifted into the air.

He gasps, gripping tight at Voldemort’s wrists as he’s spun and forced back against the wall, his toes just barely brushing the ground.

Voldemort’s lips are pulled back into a snarl, and Harry gulps when he feels his hot, angry breaths against his skin as he looms closer. Voice shaking, he asks, “Still mad about that, then?” He’s shoved harder against the wall and bites back a wheeze, his grip on Voldemort’s wrists spasming. “Thought so.”

“Tell me what you did with them,” Voldemort orders.

Harry laughs, because apparently he can't help himself. “What good will that do?”

The fist clenched in his suit twists. He’s pushed higher. _“Tell me.”_

And the thing is, he could. He could tell Voldemort he sold the jewels, and there are so many buyers and sellers of ill repute in this godforsaken city that his buyer would never be found. Still, he’s never ratted on anyone before (well, on anyone whose only crime is buying stolen goods), and he isn’t starting now.

He glares, then says as firmly as he can, “No.”

Voldemort meets his glare, holds it. Harry wonders if this is it—if he’ll wake up tomorrow without his mask, tossed into some cell.

Then Voldemort’s hold on his relaxes.

His feet land back on the ground.

He watches Voldemort carefully, waiting to see if it’s a trap. But Voldemort only leans closer, until he can speak directly into his ear. Harry presses himself flat against the wall, trying to make himself smaller. “Next time I catch you causing trouble in my city,” Voldemort warns him, his breath hot against Harry’s neck, “I _will not stop._ I will hunt you down, drag you into the light, unmask you for all to see and make you pay for every single _cent_ you’ve stolen.”

Harry holds his breath, holds himself still.

“But not tonight?” he asks, his voice somehow steady.

Voldemort hums, and Harry swears he can _feel_ it vibrate in his throat, in his chest. “Tonight,” Voldemort says, and Harry shivers again, “I’ve found myself in a… generous mood. Next time, you won’t be so lucky.”

Something blurs in the corner of his vision.

He flinches, his eyes clenched shut. He gasps, and the scent of sweat, leather, some expensive aftershave he doesn’t recognize, pools over his tongue. He barely registers the sound of metal on stone.

Voldemort’s weight disappears. 

The next time he opens his eyes, he's alone in the alley. He turns his head, hisses when he feels his cheek sting, and sees one of Voldemort’s blades lodged into the brick. He gulps, gaze catching on the bead of blood on the blade’s edge, where it must have nicked him. Hand trembling, he uses his glove-covered thumb to wipe it away, staring down at the dark smear for far too long.

God. He’d really thought…

That was too close.

He knocks his head back against the wall, flushed with giddy relief. He should move, he knows. He should get back to his apartment before Ron and Hermione go spare with worry. Instead, he only stands there in the shadows, waiting for his racing heart to finally calm, for his breaths to come even again.

He stays there until he feels a small body twine between his legs, hears a familiar chirp.

He looks down and laughs—breathless, half-wild—when he sees Hedwig peering up at him, her yellow eyes gleaming.

“Come to rescue me, girl?” he asks. He bends down to pick her up, and she settles happily against his chest, purring. “You’re a bit late,” he says, scratching beneath her chin as he shrugs away from the wall and heads for the street, ready to make his way home, “but I appreciate the thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is that generous mood of his a product of harry shutting him down earlier that night?? maybe so. 
> 
> in the batman tradition, he's a bit of an odd one

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! find me on tumblr at [being-luminous](https://being-luminous.tumblr.com/)


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